


I'll Be Wrapped Around Your Finger

by soft_october



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Apocalypse, nothing is what it seems, ridiculous situations, the whole neighborhood ships it, until it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 04:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/pseuds/soft_october
Summary: The bookseller and his friend must have gotten caught up in the general sense of joy that had encapsulated the street, because they seemed to have resolved things quite nicely. How else to explain the way they now held hands in the park, or walked arm in arm to the pastry shop around the corner, or kissed each other on the cheek when they thought no one else was looking and pulled away in a sort of silly, dazed euphoria. Anya said she had seen them snogging in alley, and Sharon even claimed to have heard all manner of unusual sounds coming from the backroom of the bookshop late at night.Now, that was all well and good, but this… hm.This was a little much.Or, one hopeless shop clerk's brave attempt to make sure two man shaped beings of the world don't get arrested mere weeks after they've finally figured everything out.





	I'll Be Wrapped Around Your Finger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weatheredlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/gifts).

> Written for Carsextober for moderately okay omens, and also for cat, who adores my tasteful cutaways

The Bentley was a familiar sight to residents of a certain area of Soho. And while some, upon their initiation into the community, wondered why such a beautiful, antique car should frequently be parked so egregiously beside an old bookshop that hardly _ ever _ opened, familiarity soon caused such musings to fade into the background, where they wasted away, unanswered. 

Tommy, whose mum got him a job working in the nice boutique across the street, had once been no different, and his queries about the unusual automobile were met either with knowing laughter or shrugs and no explanations at all. But he came to understand that the car certainly wasn't any more unusual than some of the other goings on, especially in the last month or so, what with he and his co-workers all having the same dream about the bookshop burning down, those weird people in the pale coats poking around, and the odd sense that everyone had experienced something terribly important and remembered none of it. In the part of his brain he imagined to be a large filing cabinet labeled “WEIRD” in sharpie on some peeling masking tape, there just wasn’t any room left for the Bentley, and he shuffled it over to “MERELY UNUSUAL.” 

At least, until approximately fifteen days into September, after things in regards to the owners of both the Bentley and the bookshop had changed. 

Look, he was like everyone else on the damn street. Not a whole lot happened between the hours of 2 and 5pm, and thus whole neighborhood was rather keen on it's favorite show, which Sharon, the pink-haired stylist from next door, called "The fussy bookseller and his handsome friend." She would say it with a red flush high on her cheeks, a knowing smile and a twittering laugh that sounded like a whole flock of blackbirds. (Tommy took issue with her title, as he would be inclined to call it “The handsome bookseller and his anxious friend,” but each to his own, he supposed.) 

Before the end of August, the show followed a rather predictable formula. The bookshop owner and his friend would lurk around each other, go out for dinner, take walks around the park, get into what sounded like quite heated philosophical rows, all the while staring at each other with the most absurdly longing looks it was practically indecent, and neither of them seemed to have a shred of intention of ever _ doing _ anything about it. It was greater than any “will they or won’t they” nonsense telly had to offer, and it was playing out right there in front of the boutique’s windows. 

But then August ended, and things changed. 

The whole street had changed, if Tommy were being honest with himself. Before, there had always been a sense, something like a kind of hopeful desperation lingering about the place. Now there was… well, it was a bit like Scrooge at the end of A Christmas Carol: everything and everyone was effused with an absurd sense of love and good cheer. Strangers waved at each other, irritated mothers didn't blame shop clerks for things they couldn't control, even the weather was unseasonably optimistic! 

And the bookseller and his friend must have gotten caught up in the general sense of joy that encapsulated the street, because they seemed to have resolved things quite nicely. How else to explain the way they now held hands in the park, or walked arm in arm to the pastry shop around the corner, or kissed each other on the cheek when they thought no one else was looking and pulled away in a sort of silly, dazed euphoria. Anya said she had seen them snogging in the alley, and Sharon even claimed to have heard all manner of _ unusual _ sounds coming from the backroom of the bookshop late at night. 

Now, that was all well and good, but this… hm. 

This was a little much. 

Tommy wasn't a prude! He enjoyed what he considered his fair share of _ erotic materials _. He'd even had a stammering, barely coherent discussion with Sharon about what, exactly, certain terms he had heard around the neighborhood meant and came away from that conversation feeling like _ quite _ a learned man indeed. 

But my god, the Bentley was parked in the _ middle of the pavement. _ It was no place for a - an impromptu _ rendezvous _. 

Tommy had been trying very hard to focus on cataloguing the overpriced inventory, but enough was enough! Those car windows had been fogged up for the last ten minutes and the car had been rocking back and forth for the last three. (Not that he was counting, or anything.) 

There were tourists and businessmen and all _ kinds _of people trying to go to or from work or coming off a day of shopping unwittingly walking past the car, realizing what was happening, and then hurrying away with embarrassed looks on their faces, and the policeman who lurked on the corner angling for free coffee from the cafe was beginning to notice. 

Tommy wasn't one to get involved in other people's business. But those idiots _ had just worked it out, _ and getting some kind of nasty citation would be just the thing to send the bookseller spiraling into another petrified mood that would cause him to push his friend away, just as everyone on the street had seen time and time again. He might not have a partner at the moment, but Tommy was a hopeless romantic at heart, and somebody had to do something. 

He supposed it would have to be him. 

With a quick glance towards Anya, who was buried in her phone, her thumbs moving faster than his eyes could follow, Tommy left the shop and headed across the street. He was just going to knock sharply on the roof of the car, that was all. They would realize then, surely! Or what if they didn't? What if he had to say something? This was probably a big mistake but he was here already and the policeman at the corner was now blinking at the scene in startled suprise. Tommy couldn't blame him, there were indistinct shapes moving around the backseat of the Bentley, and he was immensely grateful that the fogged windows were blurring anything... untoward. But the clouded windows did nothing to stem the flow of _ heated_, fragmented phrases pouring from the vehicle. 

“Just trying to kiss you and you have to go right away fiddling with it -” someone growled. 

“_ Crowley -” _

“I’m almost there, angel, just -” 

“Be careful!”

“I mean if you would just let me miracle it -”

“_ Absolutely _ no miracles, what if you cause some damage?” Miracle? Aw Christ, was this _ another _ new term? How was anyone supposed to keep up anymore? Tommy was going to have to ask Sharon later, if he didn’t die from embarrassment in the next thirty seconds. 

“I could fit a bit better if you just let me open the door-”

“I can’t be seen out there like _ this! _ ” Tommy needed to leave, he needed to turn right around and _ go _ but that policeman was walking towards them and they were going to get caught and then - 

There was a moment of silence that was followed by what could only be described as a moan of triump

“Oh you’ve finally gotten it!” 

The door to the Bentley suddenly burst open, and the bookseller’s anxious friend tumbled out onto the pavement right at Tommy’s feet, fully clothed, with a golden ring clutched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thank you, my dear!” Azirapahle called from within the vehicle. “Can you imagine, losing my ring to the depths of your car not a day after you’d given it to me? Being seen in _ public _ without it?” 

“Yeah, well, that’s the last time I let you talk me into doing anything the human way,” Crowley grumbled, twisting his hips as if to work out some twinge. “I’m certain human corporations aren’t supposed to bend like that. How did it get so far down below the seats, anyway?” 

“You know how these things are, but - oh no.” Aziraphale took in the fog of condensation on the windows, the sheen of sweat on Crowley’s forehead and the flush across his cheeks from his efforts trying to reach the seemingly impossible place where his new wedding band had fallen, the policeman gaping at them, and the nice young lad from the shop across the street who had one hand extended and looked as if he were about to pass out at any moment. 

“Oh, I think they’ve all gotten the wrong idea,” he said, dismayed. Crowley looked around, realized what Aziraphale was on about, rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. 

A second later, the small crowd that had gathered found they could not remember why they had slowed in the first place. Certain shop clerks and patrons with their noses pressed against the glass of front windows shook their heads and returned to business as usual, and the poor boy from across the street wandered back into the overpriced boutique, scratching his head, wondering why on earth he had decided to go for a short walk so close to the end of his shift. 

“It’ll be alright, none of them will think twice about it by tomorrow,” said Crowley, leaning down into the car to see Aziraphale with a certain look on his face, one that Crowley had become, ah, _ intimately _ familiar with in the last few weeks, a look that made the heart within his chest thud just a little bit harder. “We could -” he stammered, “We could, um, head upstairs, if you wanted to?” Crowley threw an arm in the vague direction of the bookshop. But Aziraphale smiled, a tempting, devilish thing that had no place on an angel’s face _ at all _ and patted the seat beside him. Crowley’s eyes widened at the same time his pulse decided to go for an all time personal record. He could hear it in his _ ears _. 

“The _ Bentley _? Angel, I don’t think -” 

Without waiting for him to finish, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the lapels of his blazer and hauled him into the car for a kiss that made the protest waiting at the end of that sentence lose its way entirely. 

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, a minute or so later. “With everyone around?” 

“I mean, we’re here _ already _,” Aziraphale pouted. “The bedroom above the shop seems rather far away, doesn’t it?” Crowley nodded eagerly, and followed Aziraphale into the backseat, which seemed far deeper and wider than when he’d been contorting himself into knots trying to reach Aziraphale’s ring not five minutes earlier.

This time, when unusual movements and sounds began to fill the Bentley, the residents of Soho didn't notice anything. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure they'll make it upstairs eventually. 
> 
> Yell fun things at me here [@soft-october-night](https://soft-october-night.tumblr.com/)


End file.
